Kelly Tunstall and Ferris Plock: slapstick symbolism

Kelly Tunstall's pretty women, such as this one in "Spray Tan," are pixelated, distorted and often branded with logos.

Kelly Tunstall's pretty women, such as this one in "Spray Tan," are pixelated, distorted and often branded with logos.

Photo: Courtesy Of The Artist

Photo: Courtesy Of The Artist

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Kelly Tunstall's pretty women, such as this one in "Spray Tan," are pixelated, distorted and often branded with logos.

Kelly Tunstall's pretty women, such as this one in "Spray Tan," are pixelated, distorted and often branded with logos.

Photo: Courtesy Of The Artist

Kelly Tunstall and Ferris Plock: slapstick symbolism

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Boundaries are overrated. Witness the melt-away live-work borders of S.F. artists Kelly Tunstall and Ferris Plock, whose scene of domestic art-making bliss means gathering for a family meal in the dining room with their two young sons, Brixton and Angus, and then swapping out the plates with the paintings they'll work on into the night.

How do they do it? "I think the key thing to any collaboration is respect and talent and a very open relationship, talking about what works and doesn't work," says Plock, 39, from the pair's Inner Richmond digs. "There are so few things as exciting as 'We're going to create this little world that we've talked about for months and even years.'

"Believe me, I've collaborated with many people, and nine times out of 10, it doesn't work so well due to voice, ego, insecurities, noncommunication, schedule or whatever. We do feel pretty lucky - even though I'm getting old and cranky."

That edge manifests as a bit of biting social commentary in "Loading." Tunstall and Plock's two-person show of paintings and mixed media takes a puckish look at identity formation, information transfer and the technology filters we rely on as we don Google goggles and drink in the visuals from the screens that surround us in an increasingly sped-up age. A slapstick symbolism runs through Plock's skateboarding Looney Tune critters, who are breaking up visually as they crash-land, and in Tunstall's pretty women, pixelated, distorted and branded with logos.

Tunstall, 33, hit on the exhibit's concept one day when she found herself perturbed that runway fashion shows weren't instantly loading onto her phone. "I thought, this miracle is happening - how can you get frustrated by this?" she says. "We're all trained to expect instant gratification - everything's happening so fast that we expect that with everything in life. We wanted to make these exchanges more physical."

As befits this ever-shareable era - one that has allowed the pair to sell artwork via Instagram and soon Art.com - the couple not only brainstormed and sketched out many of their works together, but also directly collaborated as KeFe on visual mashups full of in-jokes, name drops and the skull thought balloons that Plock equates with online searches. "We call it 'commissions without permission,' " he says. "She'll wake up one day, and I'll say, 'Hey, I saw something here, so I went for it.' Sometimes I get punched in the eye, and sometimes she likes it."

Just don't picture Tunstall's stylish saucer-eyed girls to frolic beside Plock's rough-and-tumble Daffy Ducks anytime soon. The ladies, she declares, "haven't hung out with the cartoon characters because they don't have any pants on."